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Lewis M.Providence, Rhode Island

Lewis M. is a boston-based (and Providence born) poet, beatmaker, and MC. He has performed at the Apollo Theater in NYC,
The Smithsonian, among many other venues. His beats retain a refreshingly simplified approach to hip-hop production that harkens back to the boom-bap of the 90's while remaining fresh and new.To inquire about purchasing beats, contact him at: Lewis.Morris@flatlinepoetry.com...more

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VERSE 1
When I die,
I want my funeral DJ’ed by Preem…
Lower my casket
while activating smoke machines.
Pyrotechnics erupt
as my eulogy is read.
You’ll swear, you might
forget a nigga's dead…
The only bible that is read
is the one police mistook for a gun.
When I pulled it out, and prayed…
all them niggas did was spray…
All them niggas did was shoot,
but it’s a’ight, though.
Silver linings and all that.
No use in being spiteful.
Besides, I was sick of paying bills,
and paying rent, and taking trains
to go to work, then go home,
then go to sleep, then wake up,
then take a shit, then feel like shit
for repeating this cycle.
What kind of worth do I have
if I’m living that life, though…
But, think about the Trayvon’s and Mike Brown’s…
They were martyred
after being murdered.
Celebrities unheard of.
If this bus pass was the gravity
pulling down my mentality
Then, I’d gladly shed it to
ascend up to the Heavens.
Who’s with me?
Death isn’t a new phenomenon.
Brewing in response to
its apathy or nonchalance
is a discontent and anger…
About damn time.
I had to say that shit twice,
cuz it’s about damn time.
As for me, have Celine Dion
pen Grammy-winning ballad
about how I died, and
all the housewives would cry.
Eyes would marvel at my body
as the DJ scratches…

CHORUS
Straight up born in the furnace.
Highly flammable shit, you should burn this
down. No hand-holding for rebels...
Stay hard-headed, never settle. I'ma show you
how to use your rage as your power.
This place is ours.
Tear the walls apart, just...
burn it all down. Burn it-
Burn it all down.
burn it all down. Burn it-
Burn it all down.

VERSE 2
When I die,
I want my headstone
to be a game of whack-a-mole
at a Chuck E. Cheese.
Aww, you shocked? Please.
My will might as well be a list
of blasphemous wishes
granted to me by a genie
who's also Christopher Hitchens.
Take it or leave it, White America!
Here I am!
Fear thy man who sees
America, thy sham
for what it really is... kids.
Just peep the scene
of my murder. These bullet holes
are maps to this scheme.
Dream on if you think equality
is in existence.
My nigga Guille said that
every breath of air is political resistance.
Didn't get the memo.
Wonder if dying
meant I settled for
the status quo.
'Cuz, it's getting harder laying
with this "smile" on my face
when my death had to be political.
(shit)
Living in Obama's nation
had me wildin'...
Worried about my black ass,
'cuz that nigga's white half is silent.
(Damn) Nigga in the oval
office tap dancing...
(Damn) Moderate democrat ass
nigga. We can't win...
(Damn) when no one's fighting
for us, turning a blind eye.
(Who the hell are you?)
Lewis M. is the name. (Damn)
Zombified heretic is
the title I claim.
Mind spinning just like the
bullet that's still in my brain.
I'm just saying...
If anything I ever written mattered,
you'll tell em to make Rorschach patterns
out of my blood splatters, nigga!